For the Want of You
by eringi
Summary: After the strike and Jack’s disappearance, Bumlets, Pie Eater and Swifty wonder upon their lives, upon being newsboys, and upon the conduct of proper young men. (SLASH.)
1. Disclaimer

**Title:** For the Want of You

**Pairing:** Bumlets / Swifty ; Bumlets / Pie Eater

**Rating:** PG for now ( but I doubt it's going to get raunchy)

**Notes:** After the strike and Jack's disappearance, Bumlets, Pie Eater and Swifty wonder upon their lives, upon being newsboys, and upon the conduct of proper young men. (SLASH.)  
  
**Disclaimer:** Disney owns Newsies and all of the characters herein. I own an overactive mind that can't concentrate on one thing for too long. I lose both ways.

* * *

_ "The needle's eye that doth supply  
The thread that runs so true;  
I stump my toe, and down I go,   
All for the want of you."  
_  
Rhyme from a popular Victorian children's game.

* * *

I don't know any one who is a fan of Newsies, but I was so happy to read so many stories involving them, especially slash. I have been a fan of Newsies since 1992, so I'm really happy to see the community is still going. Please, anyone who wants to discuss Newsies, my AIM is "forthewantofyou." I'd love to talk! (Does it sound too desperate? Ha, ha, ha.)  
  
**Onto the Introduction...!**


	2. Introduction

**INTRODUCTION**

We were both foreigners, really.  
  
He was a half-breed; I was not born on American soil. We would have liked to think of ourselves as people, true New Yorkers, but often times it was not that easy. To most people, people recruit for jobs, we were not fit to address the public. Perhaps working at a factory, sweating blood and breathing death would better suit us.  
  
We could not have that, no. Swifty was too delicate, I suppose. It had to be his mother's side. Don't know much about her except that she had gone into California before the banning of Japanese immigration. Must have been a child, raised among a strict family. Must have made some mistakes in life, indeed.  
  
He was probably her best mistake. By any account he was my closest friend, and would not have been brought into the world without her.  
  
Sitting across from me, he was also lazily passing the summer afternoon along. Nearly a year had elapsed since the strike, though nothing had changed at all. Time grew still for most of us, though both Swifty and I were almost becoming too old to keep up hawking the headlines.  
  
It had been a bad day for business, and between the two of us there had only been around one-hundred sold. Most likely the selling spot had something to do with the lack of customers. More likely, though, we were not small or cute, sweet or gullible. By his reckoning, Swifty was eighteen. I was probably somewhere around the same age, though admittedly I did not know for sure.  
  
"It ain't fair."  
  
The words caused me to look up, braking out of my thoughts. Mouth had drawn itself into a firm line, and he tugged his hat off, wiping his forehead dramatically. The temperature was high, not record braking by any means, but probably one of the hottest days the summer of 1900 had seen.  
  
Without waiting for my response, Swifty continued on. "Even on a day like today. It ain't fair at all."  
  
"It'll be okay," came my murmured reply, not knowing if my words could really be believed. Wiping a layer of cool sweat from the back of my neck, I was shocked into goose bumps as a small breeze brushed by the both of us. "I mean, he'll make sure we're all right."  
  
He. Swifty's features darkened at the mere thought of him. "He's a traitor, Bumlets."  
  
"Jack is our friend." Wetting the dry skin of my lips, I had to turn away from him to assert myself. "I'm sure he'll be back, like last time." For the truth was that our leader, the head of all of the Manhattan newsboys, had disappeared without a spoken word. There had been only the pamphlet on Santa Fe; it had been clear the young man had left on his own accord.  
  
It was concerning to me, but perhaps more concerning was the envy in Swifty's eyes. Santa Fe was New Mexico, unclaimed land was plentiful. The West, wild and savage, did not seem appealing to me. But to Swifty, I knew the exact connotations. His mother, her family... they had all lived in California. Perhaps there would be a place for him there. That is, if anyone knew of his existence.  
  
Like Jack, he felt caged. New York was not where he belonged, he had often confessed. In dreams he knew a place where the sky was clear and there was grass, real green grass all around. New York in its squalor and grime and filth was the reverse of everything the free American had come to desire. I knew no other life, could hope for nothing else than what I had.  
  
It was not probable, my escape from such a life.  
  
Noticing that Swifty had lost himself in thoughts, I tried to resume conversation. A fly whizzed past my ear, and though my lip curled I was used to the sensation. "Anyway, we're independent. We don't need anyone except ourselves, and each other."  
  
The words spread a small indication of happiness across the troubled features of my best friend. Dark brown hair was exotic, especially in combination with the refined almond-shape of his eyes. It was enjoyable, sitting there looking at his face, but when I noticed his face's transformation into wonder I looked away subtly. Indeed, we were as best friends should have been.  
  
"Until you find the right girl," Swifty quipped, scratching his hair through his hat this time.  
  
"As if either of us has the money to support a wife," I shot back, trying to harness my lack of interest as if it were truly just glum awareness of my financial status. Eyes lingered upon my own fingers. Perhaps if I had been raised with prosperity, they wouldn't have seemed so overworked. Callus and dirt took away any handsomeness they would have had.  
  
Where he had once been sitting up, leaning forward, Swifty shifted against the hard, baking concrete of the stair-ledge, lying on his back. The change in position allowed him to look up to the sky, and as he did so he seemed to fly away. "Some day," breath was short as he imagined, "I'm going to be rich, and I'm going to have my own place. And no one is ever going to call me names again."  
  
Both of us knew that if Swifty ever became rich, it would probably be through some fluke. There was such a thing in America as upward mobility, but starting from the barrel's bottom would not help our odds. After all, a newsboy had no chance for being hired by a serious company. He had no clothes, no belongings, and (in most cases) no family to support him.  
  
However, it was in my best interest to take the game as a grain of salt in a sea of sand. "And I will make sure Kloppman has a proper retirement, and that I have a new suit for each day of the week. And that I've got my house next door to yours."  
  
"Of course." Some sort of laughter exited Swifty's mouth, but it was not the loud kind, nor was it the overly-cheerful giggle that was usual for him.  
  
An odd silence enveloped us once more, and this time I had no heart to break it. Standing up, I hit the tip of my wooden stick against the decorative grass next to the cement. It was not the kind for walking on, but the kind for celebrating the authority of its owners.  
  
"Fifteen minutes until the afternoon editions," lamely, my voice did not want to come out. It was like a dream, the one whose nature was immobility, about disability. I often had dreams where I could not speak, could not move. "We should go back to the distribution office."  
  
We were both foreigners, really, and despite our friendship I knew nothing about how to approach the mess I was creating inside my head. 


	3. Chapter One

**Chapter One, In which we learn the circumstances of Bumlets' Upbringing.  
**

**

* * *

**

The grimy taste of day-old coffee coated my mouth, and through a heave of breath I awoke all at once. When I had a bad dream, the feeling of waking up was much stronger than usual. The emotions and the deeply identifiable terror that rose with them left a stronger impression then the dream itself.  
  
I could never remember just what had happened. Just that when I awoke my senses were on fire. It was then I could smell the sweat, the filth of my surroundings. My own filth. From the bathroom came a different, more unpleasant smell. I choked on a sudden wave of nausea.  
  
Then, a glance to either side, I sat up half-way. Above me slept Swifty, to the sides my other friends surrounded me. Across the way was Jack's empty bunk. He had not returned, and the truth was I would (in all probability) never see him again. It wasn't the pain of missing a close friend, but the pain one must have felt in the death of a president, in the loss of a hero.  
  
For Jack Kelly had been my hero. In all of his fearlessness he had conquered something I could never have imagined. He believed in himself, was a true go-getter.  
  
A whisper came from somewhere, and the voice I knew right away. "You awake, Bumlets?"  
  
While Swifty might have been my closest friend, it was Pie Eater that I had known for the longest time. Upon hearing his voice at this time of morning, I was startled slightly. Sitting up all the way, I wet the dry film upon my lips, hoping to somehow make the taste in my mouth go away. Under me, my bed creaked just slightly and I paused. Though the others were mostly heavy sleepers, I did not want to disturb anyone. "Yeah."  
  
He jumped down quietly off the side of his bed, agile feet hitting the floor with a bare indication of his presence. With a nod of his head, he beckoned me to follow. Better to not talk while the others were amidst slumber. Dreaming was the only time when they were free, and it would not have been proper to take that away.  
  
Heading into the bathroom, past the row of sinks, Pie Eater turned around to make sure that I was coming. The mood was not a stuffy one, and though he seemed eager to talk, it was most likely because we had both coincidentally been awake. He was the exception to the boys, being the one who was quietly cautious, woken with terrible shaking images of childhood.  
  
Years ago, we had often depended on each other in the cold of the night.  
  
Out of the bathroom window and up the metal fire escape, he was up on the roof with me tailing behind. The sun had not quite risen but was on the horizon, giving the mostly-dark sky a halo of pinks and golds. Sitting himself down on some dew-soaked crate, he stretched out. "Care to talk about it?"  
  
The words took me by a sort of surprise, and as I tilted my head he choked back a knowing laugh. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You were having a dream about Jack," the quiet response made my cheeks flush, but Pie Eater did not take advantage of it. A sudden rush of memory hit me. I had been dreaming about Jack, hadn't I? He had gone away and left all the rest of us for suckers. Santa Fe had made him a true man, while the rest of us sat in the lodging house like the children we were.  
  
"I don't really remember," I shrugged my shoulder, swiping my too-long bangs out of my eyes.  
  
Eyes looked upon me more seriously this time, but he drew his mouth out flat, nodding. "I see." The tone was purely non-committal, because he knew me well enough to identify my lies. "I'm worried about him too." Though they shouldn't have, the words surprised me slightly. "We have no leader now."  
  
"I know," glumly, I finally sat next to Pie Eater. The crate was big enough for two, and though the dew soaked into the thighs of my woolen underwear, I was not bothered. "We have to carry on, but..."  
  
Nodding, Pie Eater pulled a cigarette from the pocket of his long johns. "It's going to be different without him. The others won't listen to guys like us. It just isn't in our blood. We're not leaders like him, you and I. We're followers, doomed to serve."  
  
"Upbringing."  
  
The murmur came from me, though I didn't realize I had even said it aloud until he replied. "Guys like us know nothing, not like him." Jack had a family, and despite what some of the New York big shots had to say, they were waiting for him in Santa Fe. He'd asserted that until the end.  
  
"Do you ever wish we hadn't left?" For reasons unknown, I blurted the sentence out, not even having the time to digest it within myself before spewing it upon my dear friend.  
  
Whereas he had been looking at the horizon, Pie Eater turned then to me, eyes studying my eyes, face more serious than usual. Hair was cropped and cheeks a ruddy pink in the dim light. "Sometimes." Something unknown to me flashed over his face and he pulled his glance away, sinking it into watching his knees instead.  
  
"Me too. But only sometimes."  
  
"Yeah," he agreed. "Could have gotten ourselves a different education."  
  
Memories flooded past my eyes, and for a moment I was in a waking dream, unable to see anything else but the images of my childhood. Before my time as a newsboy, with Pie Eater. I had led an entirely different life as an entirely different person. "I suppose the orphan asylum was no place for us."  
  
A hand slid onto my shoulder, comforting and comradely. "They taught you English," the parental tone was not condescending, yet spoke to me on a different level. We did not know our ages, but guessed them to be around the same. However, he had always acted as my guide, helping me out of possible difficulties the best that he knew how.  
  
"You taught me English," I reminded him, which made him pause, and laugh slightly in silent agreement. A pause conveyed my anxiety, and I spoke what came to mind. "And now Jack does not seem any different than the nuns. He deserted us."  
  
Sometimes I could remember them, the nuns. Perhaps they had sometimes offered kindness, but to one such as myself, a young boy who could neither speak or understand English, they had no time for. Had it not been for Pie Eater's kindness I would have been left alone. His aptitude for Italian, and Italian's similarities with my native tongue had allowed us to communicate, had allowed me some slight solace.  
  
Yet, he had not given me the calm he somehow always retained. "He did not desert us. He stayed until he knew we could make it on our own. The nuns would have done the same, had we stayed on. It was us who deserted them."  
  
He had sort of a point, really. We had been the ones to escape the orphan asylum, gone on our own accord. Gone with not even a penny between the two of us.  
  
"And you're going to desert me, someday."  
  
The last reminder caused me to look over at him, more surprised than anything else. "I'd never," I started to speak but as I did, he shook his head. "You the pal of my heart, Pie... my brother in arms." Speaking the words formed a knot in my throat and I could not continue, knowing the futility. I had been turning away from him, ever since beginning to discover my adult self.  
  
He was the crutch that I had supported myself off of for so long. Now, weaning myself away from his grip, it seemed as if I was trying to live without him in my life. We had not talked as such in a very long while. Admittedly, it was both due to my own actions and my new interests. Still, it felt refreshing to be so intimate again.  
  
"Sell with me today?" He was testing me, of that I was sure.  
  
"I promised Swifty..."  
  
Awkward silence rose with the sun. He nodded and let me be, dragging his arm down my back in brotherly defeat before clasping his hands together in his lap. "Yeah. I'm supposed to go with Dutchy and Specs, as it were."  
  
We said nothing more until the stirring of the others below brought us back to life.


	4. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two, In which Bumlets and Swifty spend the afternoon together.  
**

* * *

His face was calm that afternoon, and as we rounded the corner and turned down Broome Street, we harked out headlines with voices of angels. It was a good spot, a little more upper class than the areas around the lodging house. Ladies walked and the both of us tipped our hats when we saw one particularly worthy of buying our humble wares.  
  
It was all a plot, a game for more money. Perhaps today we would be able to eat more than just what we could not sell. A nice supper at Tibby's Restaurant, a place I recalled vividly when thinking of the strike, would fill my stomach and heighten my spirits. The days I had scraped together enough to have more than a coffee were good.  
  
Though the morning's events plagued my mind bare, I tried to smile and retain my usual countenance. Appearances made the newsboy, after all. Pie Eater's loneliness had been so obvious, and my lack of care for him was cruel. Yet there I stood, papers under one arm while waving the other about, stick in hand.  
  
"Italian King assassinated by lunatic silk weaver!"  
  
Though the headlines were hot, the afternoon was cooler than the previous day. The muggy clouds that hung low in the air did not stop our work, and I hoped that the sky would not explode with the wrath rain incurred. Selling under awnings did nothing compared to when we could roam the streets.  
  
He was glancing at me through our separation in the crowd, the determination in his eyes turning into a knowing smile as he saw me peering back at him. Small delicacies let me see further into his thoughts, and as I turned again to scream out a headline, I felt a rush in my chest unlike what was proper. The burning continued through every pore of body, and fingers almost itched as I thought about something more than inappropriate.  
  
As we parted through the crowd and joined together once more, a clap of thunder was heard in the sky. People were scattering while the two of us stood in the middle of the way. A glance up to the sky revealed we still had a few more minutes before the rain would it.  
  
His hand latched onto my shoulder. An innocent touch for most, but I knew why he did it. His forwardness struck me and I pulled away almost instantly, smiling shyly to hide my embarrassment. "What do you think? Try and sell the last twenty, or take cover?"  
  
"The rain doesn't look like it's going to be weak, so if we don't sell them now, we'll never sell them when the evening editions come out!" Wetting a finger and putting it into the sky, he shook his head. "We have to go for it."  
  
Nodding, I trusted his instinct. He was smarter than me about things like the weather, and so I went off of his every word. Breaking away from him again, we hit up opposite sides of the street. Some had brought their umbrellas out in anticipation for the strong shower that was waiting to break out. Ten each. Not too bad for the morning edition, each of us having sold around ninety. Certainly, we had beaten our selling from the previous day.  
  
"Extra, extra!"  
  
What words slipped past my lips I could not have been sure, for though I sold with a genuine fury, I could not rip my mind away from other thoughts. I must have been good for as I jogged down the way, paper after paper was sold until only two remained.  
  
Indeed, I had disassociated myself with Pie Eater, and for what?  
  
Swifty had beaten me and came back to me with empty hands, prying away one of the last two papers from me as he went to sell again. There was a reason for his name, a truth that could be told in it. He was fast, agile. Most likely it had to do with the orient brimming in his blood.

Though I had never met another Japanese, I had heard a lot from stories. Quick and small, able to beat any Westerner with the use of mighty intellect. There had been many bad things too, but I knew that (at least in Swifty's case) they must have been lies.  
  
Lovely, the way he ran, springing over the landscape as though he could really fly. It made me smile, and in the moment I paused I was late to see that someone had lined up and was handing me the correct amount for my last paper.  
  
Nodding, I exchanged money for goods and went on my way, after Swifty.  
  
The same moment brought another gleam of lightning. Following quickly was the clap of thunder, and all at once the heavens exploded with a gush of rain. We were both caught in the torrents. The one last newspaper still in his hand, Swifty laughed out loud as he ran for cover. It only took moments of running, stung by the bullet-rain, before we were completely soaked.  
  
Squish of water in my shoes, I pursued the puddles, flashing momentary footsteps Swifty left behind. He was leading me back, back past the crowded overhangs, back past Irving Hall, and into the empty crevice of a covered alleyway.  
  
We stopped together, both of us laughing then as we shook off like the dogs we were. The action did little to aide us, and in the warm summer heat the impromptu shower felt rather pleasant. Arm reached for me again and Swifty held out the last paper, murmuring, "We almost did it."  
  
"Don't worry! We made good time," I assured him, looking out into the street. Though it was only near noon, the rain had caused the sky to darken over, giving the appearance of a time close to dusk. Under the protection of the covered alley, we must have been practically invisible to anyone passing by.  
  
He did not pull away and with our bodies hidden, pushed in just a little closer. A brush of his knee against mine sent me back, digging into the wall with a sort of expectancy in my actions. Another look out of the alley and I was satisfied there would be no problems. If we went even a few steps backward, no one would even know we existed.  
  
Thinking the same as I, Swifty tugged my arm, guiding me gently further into the alley.  
  
Pounding of rain against the tin roof masked the noise of our voices. In fact, Swifty had to lean in closer for the sake of my comprehending what he had to say. "You don't suppose we could rest here for a while?"  
  
"Until the rain has passed, I doubt we have any other choice." My words returned back and as I spoke I could feel my breath resounding against the skin of his cheek, against the gently carved ivory of his neck. A look passed between us and I smiled once more, catching him before he could capture my lips.  
  
It was obvious, really, the way that I felt about him. Just as obvious as the way he felt about me. There was a deadly dangerous aspect of the attraction, though, that caught me every time. I was a Catholic. God would send me to hell if I wandered down the wrong path. I'd probably go there on thoughts alone.  
  
I knew that the hesitation always disappointed him, but as he pulled slightly away he smiled a more kind, less intimate smile. Like he dissented to his failure. The pain that I made him feel was hard enough. "Here, sit down."  
  
Wooden boxes, half-rotted from the damp summer air, sat scattered about the alleyway. Each was chair-sized and so I took one, leaving him with another. Taking the moment to just admire the dark outline of his face in the nighttime-like dull of the alley, wet my lips. What was there to talk about?  
  
"Do I make you uncomfortable?" Swifty asked after a moment, lips pursing in a sort of pout.  
  
Shaking my head, I rubbed my hands together. Still soaked, the damp wool of my clothes itched slightly. "No, of course not. You're my best friend, Swifty." The assurance must not have been very convincing because the way he tilted his head indicated a small amount of disbelief.  
  
"And you're the pal of my heart, Bumlets."  
  
Love that dare not speak its name screamed out of the half-illuminated brown in his eyes. Most likely that love echoed itself in my own features. I wanted to reply with the same fervor, but found myself lacking the power to reply at all.  
  
It disheartened him visibly. "If you let me kiss you, even just once," he suggested, words trailing off. "You'd understand it's not something bad, what we feel. It's not unnatural. It can't be."  
  
He was not Catholic. I doubted highly if he was anything at all. And though he was a heretic and I prayed for him in my dreams, I could not force his changing. He had grown from a woman of no religion at all. He did not know how to read, how to interpret the word of the Bible. For him, understanding the wrong in what we felt was likely impossible.  
  
"God could strike us both down," I replied lowly, feeling more than unenthusiastic about denying him once more. "Or worse if someone saw us." "No one is going to see us in here," his tone revealed his frustration. "And whatever god you believe in, he's got to be wrong. I know the way I feel."  
  
Swallowing, the beating of my heart quickened, unsteady. "We shouldn't."  
  
A memory flashed into my mind and its message confused me. The orphan asylum, such a young age held such deep secrets. Deepest impact on my mind was the flickering of candles, the gentle caress of a hand against my cheek. The old mildew smell of confession box.  
  
"Don't worry so much, Bumlets. Just once. And you can say Hail Mary as many times as you want afterwards." Adventure sparkled and through the darkness I could discern the twinkle of Swifty's eyes, urging me on. Hand reaching across for a firm grip, seizing my shoulder, he seemed to wait only for a word from me.  
  
Eyebrows must have furrowed because he tried to look more and more endearing. I took my time in responding. A slight nod sealed my fate, and as our bodies slid closer together, I could not help but feel the guilt melt away, being replaced with desire.


End file.
